These Words
by Maddy Soup
Summary: Romance would be easy, if only Roxas weren't involved. AkuRoku, Light-hearted fluffernutter for your holiday entertainment!


Summary: Romance would be easy, if only Roxas weren't involved. AkuRoku Happy Holidays!

AN: M: PLEASE DON'T FREAK OUT. In lieu of offering you our heads (because a certain SOMEBODY went to a certain PLACE to pursue a certain DEGREE), I offer this. It's substance lays in its simplicity-I wrote this story on my own, from the bottom of my heart, because I wanted to feel good again. And writing makes me feel good, truly, it does.

* * *

**These Words**

* * *

**It's **not the kind of romance that the storybooks remember—well, at least, not the kind that he heard as a kid. First of all, most of those have something to do with a "prince" and a "princess," and though he'd be inclined to refer to Roxas as the latter on a _number _of occasions, the facts stand that, gender notwithstanding, neither of them are in acquisition of a (physical) vagina. Which is really, well, _fine_, because to be honest Roxas prefers dudes to chicks. Axel, though without preference, considers himself at present to be "Roxas-sexual," and Roxas is invariably a dude (though of course he'd argue with such terminology, what with his twenty degrees and awards in Historiographical Gender Studies or whatever they're called).

It's the kind that begins with awkward first conversations and long, lingering pauses; the kind lacking in confident assumption, comprised entirely of guesswork and dumb luck, and way too conscious of itself. The protagonists aren't wise beyond their twenties but instead seem pathetically adolescent, groping blindly into the dark for a 'Hail Mary' moment of triumphant epiphany reigning control over jittery hormones.

It might not be perfect—but it lasts, through one day, one week, one week three days and a month, two, three, six, seven (and this one it barely survives, crippled and mangled, but deeper and better than it was before). Axel is surprised with himself because normally he gets frustrated at the very implication of commitment, but instead he finds himself on the opposite end, plagued by thoughts of Roxas not being quite as serious as he, Roxas, who is only twenty-two and getting another degree in something completely ridiculous, who has a freckle on the knuckle of his thumb and who cannot cook a T.V.-dinner to save his life.

Roxas who _still _hasn't returned Axel's bold declaration of "I love you" as of three days ago, who hasn't called back yet, who has been avoiding him like the avian flu.

He had been so sure—_so damn sure_—that the timing had been perfect. At eight months they had reached a new landmark in Axel's timeline of lovers, the longest exclusive relationship he'd (faithfully) been in. The words had been tickling on his tongue ever since he caught himself staring at the way Roxas habitually twisted the back to his earring in his right ear. He'd been talking about something—and the subject probably went right over his head, but he'd never remember anyway—when the urge to blurt them out hit him like a train.

And why, he had asked himself. Why did I just think that?

But the truth is, over the course of the evening (and quite a few thereafter), he couldn't isolate it. It was just the way Roxas was speaking, low and quickly and trying more to figure the issue out himself than actually share anything with Axel. The way his eyes were flickering between Axel's hands (because Roxas had a thing for hands, and in his softie moments told Axel that his whole attraction could be pinpointed to the spider-web stretch of the tendants lining opposite of his palms) and the saltshaker. But mostly, the way he twisted his earring—an unconscious habit but a persistent one that surfaced mainly when he was talking about something he really believed in.

He held the words as long as his impatient self could manage—three days, when they hit their eight-month mark, and then he took him out for a nice Italian dinner, and when their bellies were full he ushered Roxas into his souped-up truck, and took him to the most romantic place he could possibly think of. And then he said the words—let them tumble at long last from his mouth, free of restraint, like a slinky on a staircase—and after a big pause Roxas fumbled his thumbs together, said (to Axel's eternal mortification), "Thank you," and asked to be driven home.

Where he went inside.

_Alone._

Upon recounting the heady tale to the only person who could possibly understand, Demyx held up a hand, raised an eyebrow, and asked, "You mean your eight-month mark…this past Friday? Two days ago?"

"Yea," Axel managed, eager to leap back into his woeful story and a little miffed at being interrupted midway through the part post-rejection where he could whine ceaselessly about being unloved and miserable. "Why?"

"I saw you this Friday. You weren't at a nice Italian place—you were at Seventh Heaven."

"Right."

"The dive near Station Heights?"

"Pizza is Italian," Axel justified, rolling his eyes. "Duh."

"Where was this…super romantic place?" Demyx inquired, eyebrow already raised in a judgmental arc.

"…ckt'r," Axel mumbled, suddenly self-conscious. A knowing glance crossed the blonde's face and he scowled, eyes murderous.

"Louder, please. So they can hear you in the back," Demyx growled.

"The tower," Axel snapped, raising his arms in a wild gesticulation. "The clock tower, okay? I took him to the clock tower."

"Oh _Yevon!_" Demyx groaned, rolling his eyes and running his hands through his hair.

"What's wrong with that?!"

"Are you completely mental or do you only pretend to be?!" Demyx hissed, rubbing his temples as if he were in the midst of a great migraine (and, honestly, it was very possible he was). "The tower is where all the high-schoolers go when they want to make hanky-panky for the first time."

"Please don't call it that," Axel grumbled, ears red. Demyx looked at him a short moment and then burst out in a half-laugh, half-groan.

"Please tell me you didn't take him up there just for that."

"Of course not!" the redhead had spoken too loudly, and a few passerby's stopped to eye the commotion from the park bench. He leaned back casually against the bench, elbows resting along the tops, and crossed his legs.

"I mean…it would have been nice. But I wasn't expecting anything, and I'm not bothered that he doesn't want to screw."

"I doubt that's how he sees it. I can't believe you'd try for his first time up there! Do you know how many sloppy, clumsy virginities have been exchanged up there?"

"So what?" Axel mumbled, partially guilty. "It's got a nice view. A _really _nice view. And I didn't say it to…I wasn't trying to get laid. I said it because it's true."

In retrospect, Demyx was right, as he so often and infuriatingly turned out to be. Perhaps the situation could have been handled a little more delicately. Axel turns the blame from himself to his truck—Magda, he calls her, an ancient vehicle from a generation where flames painted along the side were the highlight of showy plumage. Now, faded but impossible to ignore, she just looks weary and puttering ever-closer to the junkyard. If Magda were a younger, sportier gal, perhaps Roxas would have been more impressed.

The frozen-yoghurt shop at the corner of Main Street proved to offer greater solace than Demyx, though, in the flavor of kiwi and the sweet waitress with whom Axel often exchanged witticisms about the weather and the state of yoghurt on a given afternoon. Today, she seems to notice the slight miss in his step, and before she can finish asking him what's wrong he's launched into the story, wildly gesticulating with his mini-spoon even as other customers came and went. Xion nods, ever polite and attentive, though she looks like she wants to laugh when he mentions the clock tower.

"You pulled that old trick? No wonder he ran away!"

His kiwi yoghurt seems suddenly bland, and before Xion can amend the situation the door jingles open and both of them froze. Roxas stands in the entrance doorway, and when his eyes lock with Axel's he blushes from his toes up to his cowlick. His lips part, peach-pink and puffy, but nothing comes out save for this strangled sort of "uhm", and then he turns on heel and bolts out the door so fast that by the time Axel manages to rush onto the front steps to follow, he's disappeared.

**O**

It's been five days now—almost a week, and definitely the longest stretch of time they've gone without seeing each other or talking to each other in…well, a while. Axel lays sprawled out on the bed in his apartment, staring at the answering machine as if it would suddenly fill with frantic messages from his boyfriend, begging to see him. He could arrive at the door, soaking wet from the rain (even though it's sunny outside), and say the words so many times Axel's heart would burst, and then he'd whisk the smaller inside and do all sorts of wicked things to him.

Instead, the clock ticks on, almost mocking him. See how the hours stretch? See how long he can go without thinking about you when you've done _nothing _but think about him, non-stop, for days?

He is irritated by this little nuance. He's always the one with one foot already out the door, always the one preoccupied and distracted by people other than the object of his supposed (and always haphazard) affections, but this time the tables have turned. He decides he'll never be like that again to anyone else—what a wretched feeling.

In a burst of electricity, a high-pitched dinging fills the room and sets his heart racing. He snatches the phone off of the receiver before the first ring is even through, and throatily whispers, "Hello?"

"Axel?" the voice on the other end is _not _Roxas. Axel scowls at the wall, gnawing on his lip.

"Axel? Hey, man, where have you been? We've been ca—"

He hangs up and contemplates leaving a _thirteenth_ message for Roxas to get. Maybe the others all got deleted…? Or maybe Sora, despite seeming to cheerfully enjoy Axel's company, secretly loathed him and was keeping them apart a la old-school star-crossed romance…? He toys with that idea awhile, imagining a Paris-esque Sora cackling to himself as he ties Roxas into his basement and makes him listen to Axel's twelve desperate messages in vain … mmm, Roxas all tied up…

**O**

Their first kiss was as clumsy and uncomfortable as any—mainly because Roxas is so much shorter than Axel, or at least, that's what he'll tell himself later. The blonde made himself perfectly clear from the beginning that if they were going to be "together," they were going to take things slowly, because he "wasn't like every other trollop on the block" or whatever pious excuse he was standing on that particular Tuesday. He'd never admit it aloud, but the real reason was because he was absolutely terrified, having little to no experience and all.

As a matter of fact, when Axel had asked Roxas out in the first place—in the manner of making his intentions clear, rather than simply hiding behind pseudo-casual sexually-charged time hanging out—Roxas told him he'd have better luck wooing a deaf and blind piglet. He didn't laugh or make light of the situation, but got this uncomfortable look, and just before Axel felt his pride unravel around him Roxas blushed and reached a hand up to twist an earring while he talked.

"Look," he said, and his voice was a little higher-pitched than normal. "If you want this…if you really…you have to understand," he was talking quicker now, and kept licking his lips nervously. "You have to be patient with me. If we do, you know. I'm not used to quick changes and I don't have a very strong heart for just toying around. So if you want to do this, you'd better be serious about me, and you'd better be patient."

It was the most honest thing he'd ever said. And Axel grinned so wide his face nearly split in two.

And they _had_ taken it slow. It was a month before Roxas even let Axel hold his hand, and even then the blonde seemed to become so overwhelmed and embarrassed that he could barely stand it for more than a few minutes at a time. But every time he tried it, their hands stayed together longer, and Axel nearly jumped out of his skin when in the middle of their record-length hand-holding at a movie theater he felt Roxas lean against him. Not even a full-bodied lean—just a press of arm against arm, elbow to elbow, shoulder to upper bicep. And Axel was so tickled that he twined their arms so that their wrists and arms were all snuggled up on the armrest, and the sensation was equitable (in Axel's formidable opinion) to ingesting too many poprocks.

So when Roxas tried to pull Axel down for an unexpected kiss during month number two, one may correctly imagine that the consequences were disastrous. Firstly, he had to stand on his tiptoes to lope his arms around Axel's neck, and when he tried to pull him down to what he assumed would be comfortable kissing height, the redhead instinctively resisted, raising an eyebrow and holding the blonde's wrists.

"What are you doing?" he asked, genuinely confused. Roxas, mortified, could only stammer and let him go.

"Idiot," he grumbled, twisting his earring. "I was trying to…just…come here."

"I _am _here." Those amused green eyes made Roxas feel even sillier. He wished that he could convey all the feelings he felt—mainly, the one that wanted to be _kissed, _thanks very much—through just a glance. But this was uncharted territory, so instead of following his instincts (which told him to kick up a fuss and run away), he tugged on the hem of Axel's shirt and pressed his forehead against his bony shoulder. He closed his eyes and waited, and after a long, shaking moment Axel let out this heavy sort of realizing exhale, and pulled him so tight that his whole heart felt the squeeze of his hug.

"_Oh_," Axel breathed, and the sound was thick and happy all at once. "Okay."

And then he leaned over and let Roxas hold his face firmly in place, eyes shut, and pressed his slightly-parted lips against Axel's, so slow and sweet that it took Axel's breath away. As soon as he went to pull away, though, Axel's mouth followed, and their sharp inhales in tandem created the most delightful harmony.

The memory presses like a bruise on Axel's heart.

**O**

Nine. Days.

Axel cannot recall a date in living memory when he has felt so awful. It's like the happiness has been sucked from his every day. Even when his friends show up with comfort food and brave but glassy smiles, no jokes they say or funny movies they suggest take the heaviness out of his heart. He doesn't feel like smiling—worse, he doesn't feel like he _wants_ to smile, not ever again. And after a few hours all but Demyx leave, and the blonde asks if he wants him to stay.

"I don't care," Axel says, and means it.

So Demyx stays.

**O**

At seven months, Axel told Roxas, "I want to leave the country."

Roxas, who rarely took anything that Axel said seriously until he said it a second time around, merely looked up from his homework and let his pen clatter onto the table. He felt a minor frustration because Axel, being employed full-time, did not have to take exams or write essays anymore, and could clearly not understand how difficult it was to concentrate when someone was talking about something completely irrelevant to the construction of ethnic gendered identities in third-world suburbs.

"Come again?"

"Travel. I'm twenty-six and I haven't seen enough of the world. I want to go somewhere, see something that astonishes me! Or, whatever," he added, toying with the lid of his cappuccino. He shrugged, eyeing his misspelled name in black sharpie along the side, 'Axle.'

In all fairness, Roxas had acknowledged once or twice in the deep recesses of his inhibitions that he was, in a sense, holding Axel back. He was preventing him from seeing other people, from moving away, and now, from going off on a whirlwind adventure to Yevon-knows where. Roxas was circumstantially stationary. University was holding him firmly in place. His guilt for such a condition manifested itself not through emotional maturity and acceptance, but instead (as difficult feelings so often do), as frustration.

"It'll never happen," he snipped. "You don't get paid enough for that sort of stuff."

It was a stupid and cruel thing to say-Roxas realized this the moment the words escaped his mouth. Stupid because he hadn't really meant it (a more appropriate thing may have been to say, "Wait for me?") and cruel because he _knew _Axel was a little self-conscious about the fact that he was a menial state worker and occasionally had to pick up odd jobs to make ends meet. The coldness of that moment would haunt Roxas for a long time after, because before he could muster an apology Axel just up and left, chair screeching as he shot out of it and left the café.

Roxas spent the rest of the day looking for Axel, calling friends and coworkers and everybody he knew associated with Axel. And when he found him—piss-drunk at the local watering hole and looking like hell—he pushed himself into Axel's arms and held him so tight he thought he would burst.

"That was awful," he choked, voice tight. "I didn't mean it. I just didn't want you to go away without me. I'm so horrible, I'm sorry."

It was the first time he slept over Axel's place, and Axel forgave him, legs and arms twined in such a way that it was hard to tell where Roxas ended and where Axel began. (But he never forgot.)

**O**

Even though Axel has been stuck in an emotional quagmire for two whole weeks now, sustenance is required of all living beings. There is no hunger behind the rumbling in his belly, no true desire to eat, only the acknowledgement that when he stands he gets a little dizzy and that might be due to a lack of nutrition.

In the grocery store people seem to give him odd sidelong glances, and when he catches his reflection in the frozen foods section against a backdrop of peas and carrots he doesn't have to wonder why. His skin, naturally pale, seems grey and drawn. There are dark circles around his eyes and the whites that make his green eyes pop seems red. His hair is always hopeless, but there's something about the way the tufts seem to sag, defeated, miserable.

"Axel?"

He nearly drops the eggs he's plucked. That voice, the smooth tenor, the gentle lilt—

Roxas' brother smiles like starlight, even though it halts the moment Axel turns to fully see him.

"Whoa, buddy, you got a cold or something?"

"Yea," Axel snorts. "You could say that."

"Well, gee, let me help you out, 'kay?"

He gets him a basket and fills it with cans of soup, all the while instructing Axel on the very best home-remedies (something about honey and mint and daisies, or maybe dandelions, but he's not really listening). Mainly because, it occurs to him, that if Sora knew they were in a rough patch, he'd say something. It's the kind of person he is. And this ignorance isn't feigned—it's authentic and completely unaware. Roxas hasn't told him what happened. He hasn't told his own brother.

This ignites the first strong feeling he's felt in awhile—rage. He clenches his fists and teeth as Sora obliviously talks, gesturing and pulling different spices into his own basket.

"…You good, Axel? You look like you're gonna be sick."

"I…"

"By the way, great work on your guys' eight-monther," Sora adds as they reach the register. "I don't know what you did, but it must have been freaking _brilliant_."

Wh-

Axel stares with wide eyes at Sora. He's not the type of person who would take such a situation so lightly, let alone openly mock Axel in his hour of need. The teasing grin drains from Sora's face, and he looks with a confused air at Axel. Axel, shaking, just presses his lips together and pays for his groceries. He waits for Sora to do the same and manages to get outside of the store before the wrath bubbles from him, spewing onto poor Sora.

"And just what the FUCK is that supposed to mean?!" he hisses as Sora falls into step beside him. He clutches his bag almost too-hard. "Do you have any—are you aware that Roxas has been _avoiding _me for days, both physically and through every other possible medium, has completely refused to so much as look at me because of some shit that—that…what did _he_ tell you?!"

"Nothing," Sora looks genuinely worried and a little lost, brows furrowed. "No, but he wouldn't…he came to see Riku and I and he couldn't—"

"This is such bullshit!" he snarls, letting the venom seep. "He's such a selfish, awful person. Yevon, I've been so patient, _just _like he wanted, and the moment I try and—_tell _him something, he cuts me off like he didn't even care to begin with! He tells me to be so fucking careful with him and _his _feelings, but he's—fucking completely careless with mine!"

Sora gives him a long, pitying look and Axel hates it a little. But then Sora frowns and shakes his head, and as they sit at the bus stop he turns with a decided air about him.

"We are going right now to visit my brother," he says. "And sort this all out."

**O**

Roxas lives in a two-bedroom apartment with a kitchen, a view of their creepy neighbor's window, and little else. There he spends his hours reading very important books and articles on social theory, histories of small countries and societies, sex, and Yevon knows what else, and it is during those reading binges that even his flatmate Hayner fears disturbing his fellow blonde. So when Sora and Axel (still toting their groceries) arrive, the blonde with chocolate eyes gives them fair warning.

"He's been locked in there for days, won't come out but to eat," he says, eyeing Roxas' door and then his own sneakers just outside of the doormat. "Right. I'm out."

Sora strides to the door and knocks, and the only answer is a half-strangled groan.

"Roxas, you open the door this instant," he huffs, and Axel puts his bags on the table and stands before the door. The bait is snagged as Roxas unbolts and opens the door wide, completely vulnerable and not expecting their little trap.

He looks, for lack of a better word, _radiant_. His eyes are bright and beautiful blue and his cowlick seems to be less of a nuisance and more of a perky manifestation of his cheer. But the moment they land on Axel he freezes, face lighting with red, and goes to slam the door in his face. But Axel is prepared for the move and forces the door back with his arm, grinning sardonically at the blonde.

"Hello darling," he coos, too deathly sweet to be authentic. "Can I tick your ear a moment?"

And goodness knows he puts up a struggle, pushing with all his might against the back of the door with a face as red as a tomato. But Axel has the benefit of fury (and fourteen day's worth of 'What the fucking _fuck_, man?!') and pushes so hard that Roxas stumbles back, and he takes that moment to lock them both in the room. Roxas, like a little cat, doesn't shift his eyes from Axel but his body language implies he might make a run for the window.

"If you think you're going to land on your feet from the sixth story, you're insane," Axel growls, eyes narrowing. "What are we _doing?_"

"We?!" Roxas squeaks, clearly rattled. "Are you insane? What are _you _doing, barging in here like this?!"

"Gee, I don't know, seeing if you were still breathing, on account of your complete disappearance for two weeks. Did you get my calls?"

"Of course I did!"

"So you _pointedly_ ignored them," Axel laughs, but the sound is hollow. He notices that Roxas' room is spotlessly clean, as per usual, save for the trash bin, which is overflowing with crumpled balls of paper. The skeletal remains of his heart squeezes, because he knows that Roxas likes to hand-write all of his notes, which helps him commit them to memory, and then chuck them.

"Gonna make fun of my mess?" Roxas tries, half-heartedly glaring at Axel. As if _he's _been slighted and ignored.

"No," Axel hisses. "I won't. You want to know why? Because I think your mess is endearing."

This little episode is more than he's felt for weeks and his emotions are too jumbled to make any sense of. He runs his hands through his hair and invites himself to sit down on the chair in the corner of the room, and Roxas hesitates before sitting on the edge of his bed. He's blushing.

"…Endearing?"

Axel can't stop the snort of laughter, and he lets his head roll back. In his chest his heart pounds because—secretly—he's so scared of where this little meeting will go, what Roxas will tell him, what his excuses might be: you're moving too fast, there's someone else, _I've tried you out and I don't want you_.

He hasn't thought this far ahead, as to what he would say. He wants to tell Roxas how he knows his job is a shit one that in no manner promotes upward mobility or social growth, and that it's probably a little embarrassing to say that he's on the bottom tier of workers employed by the state; but he'd start studying biochemical engineering tomorrow if it meant keeping Roxas as a boyfriend. He wants to tell him that, no, he cannot have conversations with Roxas about important social things going on in marginalized countries to marginalized peoples because he flips right over the global section of the newspapers to get to the comic strips and sports section. But the conversations they _do _have, ranging from people watching to favorite movies and tiffs over the books Axel has managed to read, are all so priceless to him, and he hopes Roxas feels the same. He wants to tell him that when he took him to the clock tower he wasn't thinking about getting any (at least, no more than usual), but instead was thinking about the first time he saw Roxas, because Axel was repairing the winded side of the tower and he called down from the scaffolding, "Nice cowlick, blondie!", which was how they first met. He wants to say how much he loves the freckle on his thumb knuckle and the way he spins his earring and the color of his hair/eyes/skin/everything, loves the size of his brain and vocabulary and his attention span, his scrunchy faces and his frowny faces and his laughing faces, though to be perfectly honest it is the latter of these faces that he loves best of all. He wants to tell him how awful the past weeks have been without him, and how food doesn't taste and jokes don't make him laugh and he only says six words a day—which, for Axel, is far too few for normal. Most of all, he wants to say that it's so okay if Roxas doesn't love him back yet, because they've only known each other for just under a year but their collected memories are enough to last a lifetime, and Axel will be patient and eager to collect even more.

Instead he sticks with the much less wordy version of: "Are we good?"

And Roxas, clearly relieved, lets out a sigh and nods with a slightly-off-kilter smile.

"Yea. Sorry. For…you know."

Axel nods, shrugging. "You know, you're probably the worst boyfriend in the world."

Roxas winces a little. "I know."

"But we're okay."

"Peachy."

"Even though you've been ignoring me for two weeks."

Roxas flushes, and Axel can almost see the tips of his ears steaming. "About that—"

Axel leans back, waiting for this explanation. Roxas hesitates, and reaches for his earring to twist furiously. Axel raises an eyebrow expectantly. Finally Roxas sighs and picks up one of the crumpled pieces of paper from the pile. He chucks it at Axel's head and it delicately nips his temple before lilting into his lap.

"I've been doing this," he offers. "Obviously."

"And what the _fuck _is 'this,' which is so _obviously _more important than my nerves?" Axel drawls, and throws the paper ball back to Roxas. He flushes.

"…It's my research project. And application essay drafts."

"Application for what?"

"Research fellowships, mainly," he manages. "For the summer."

"Let me get this straight," Axel says dryly. "Your stopped talking to me because you wanted to apply for a summer job? Stopped seeing me and made me go crazy with worry that I'd ruined our—"

"I wanted to get it done before I told you."

"_Why?_" he says, and hates the way his voice almost breaks. Because he said they're good, but he's unconvinced. "Why would you do that?!"

"I got one," Roxas says, almost in a panic at Axel's shaky tone. "I got accepted to a program, okay?"

"Great!" Fed-up, Axel throws his arms in the air, a humorless laugh bursting from between his teeth. "Super! Wonderful! You could have told me and saved me a shit-ton of heartache!"

Roxas' face softens and hardens all at once. "Heartache?"

"Oh boo, Rox," the redhead snorts, rolling his eyes. "NOW you feel bad. Dozens of voicemails and it's _that _that gets your attention."

"I didn't…you were really worried?"

"Wouldn't you be?!" Axel snaps, and Roxas flinches, but his eyes dart away and he tugs at his earring again. He licks his lips, and then picks up a brochure from off of his desk. He hands it to Axel, who doesn't immediately take it. He eyes it, and then grabs Roxas' hand. The blonde hesitates but Axel pulls him stumbling into his lap, and holds him close. He presses his nose into the soft juncture of Roxas' neck, and breathes him in. The weight of the past weeks suddenly leaves him a little breathless and dizzy, but relaxed, contented at last.

"Fuck you," he grumbles half-heartedly, and Roxas is blushing (he can feel the heat of his ears against his forehead). "Seriously. That's fucked up."

"I'm sorry," Roxas says earnestly. "I didn't think you'd think that. I'm…I'm not very clever sometimes."

"You could say that," Axel snorts and wraps his arms loosely around Roxas' hips, holding him gently against him. He lets his nose trace the edge of his jaw, and Roxas holds up the pamphlet.

"I didn't want to see you because I knew I'd spoil the surprise," he says, and there's that excited light in his eyes. "It's a summer program that goes through five different countries. And…I might have signed you up to be my assistant."

Axel opens his mouth to say something smart, but then his mind processes the thought and instead only a strangled sort of moan comes out, sounding like "What" and "Huh" and "Really" all scrambled together. Roxas nods, and looks genuinely self-satisfied by his progress.

"It's really great, and we'll have fun, I think!" he offers, clearly excited. "And this way we'll go to places like Arabia and Port Royal! It's a contract, too, so we get room and board and a stipend for expenses and stuff. But I had to get my application in and propose a project and whatever."

"I can't be your assistant," he frowns, shaking his head. "I don't know anything about…whatever it is you research."

"But…you said you wanted to travel," he says in a small voice, his hopes deflating. Axel feels his stomach do one of those back-flips as it all finally starts to click.

"You did this…for me?"

"Yea, well, I guess you can take back that shit about me being the _worst _boyfriend ever," He tries to sound nonchalant, but his voice is small, like a moth in the rain. "You made things so perfect, with the tower and stuff. We, like, ate Italian! I had to one-up you somehow. But we don't have to go, if you don't want to."

There are many peculiar things about Roxas—of this Axel has never had any doubt. Sometimes he acts far wiser than his years and sometimes he has the sensibility of a twelve-year-old girl (though if he were to have said anything to Roxas, the blonde would have snorted and told Axel that prepubescent sensibilities in females are culturally relative and therefore his argument is invalid). He talks too little and is clearly completely oblivious as to how to be a part of a functioning relationship.

"I'm so fucking in love with you it's disgusting," Axel grins, running a relieved hand over his face. "Oh _Yevon_." Against him, Roxas' heart stutters in double-time and he leans forward to kiss him on the nose.

"Sorry," he offers in a boyish purr, and lets his slightly clumsy inexperienced hands slide down to the hem of Axel's shirt. "Let me make it up to you…?"

Axel, being a boy (inarguably) and therefore incapable of argument in such proximity, lets him.

**O**

The picture album on the coffee table in the partially furnished apartment boasts a myriad of moments from around the continent—the great ship masts at Port Royal and Pirate's Cove, cheeky grins and bunny ears in Arabia, and one particularly unusual one of a drunken redhead using a fork to comb his hair in the Atlantica hotel. Roxas likes to go through them when he's not working or being manhandled.

But his favorite is from their hometown, up on the clock tower at sunset, too early for the adolescents to arrive and play 'show-you-mine-if-you-show-me-yours.' Axel has his hands stretched across Roxas' cheeks, and with one hand he is pinching Roxas' earring, making the blonde flush. But he remembers that very second, just after the sound of a shutter, when he realized exactly how deeply and unmovably in love he is, how Axel's very presence is a reaffirmation that everything is going to be okay. The moment, preserved by the happenstance of Demyx's presence and a new camera, makes Roxas' heart warm every time he sees it. He realized in that instant that words and symphonies are grandiose and affect a lot of people, make them change, make them think, but with Axel the experience is both bigger and smaller, because it's only the two of them in their own little bubble of understanding but it's not demeaning. As a matter of fact, it's worth everything.

(Of course, he'll never say that aloud.)

**End**


End file.
